Normality
by schizophrenic-clown
Summary: In which the Doctor and River Song rent a flat, drink tea every afternoon, watch bad telly, and be as normal as possible. (Non-Linear Narrative, Domestic, Asexuality)


Frost coats the edges of his cheekbones and the split ends of his brunet hair. He can see his breath, and he's so easily amused. It's making him the happiest person on the planet right now, and she's staring at him like he's the biggest idiot on the planet right now.

It's all so never-ending and lovely; he doesn't even notice the warm Styrofoam cup being pressed into his hands. "What is this?" he asks, perplexed at the murky liquid. And she gives him the widest grin, and he has no other choice than to _drink it_, so he tosses the better part of it down his throat. The beverage sticks to the roof of his mouth and clings to his uvula and—

"Oh, _my_—what is—are you trying to poison me?" He deliberately sticks his tongue in her face and performs a show of exaggerated spitting and choking as his fingers curl around the cup, puncturing a hole in the material.

A fountain erupts at their feet, and she side-steps and lets the majority land on his awful laceup, leather boots. "Poison you?" she remarks, the smile still pulling on her face. "I would _never_, sweetie."

The wind picks up around them, and he gets a face full of blonde hair and snow. He pouts, and she kisses him, and the taste of hot chocolate on his lips is one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

* * *

"We should live together," he suggests, his eyes half-lidded and his posture a thing a potato would hold. Leaning against the console of the TARDIS, he presses a few buttons, but neither he nor the woman in front of him seems to take notice.

"Live together?" She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Yes." He crosses his ankles.

She laughs. "Why should we ever do that?"

He tilts his head. "It's what normal married couples do."

"We're not normal."

He only spins and shoves his thumb down on a switch and flips a throttle, and then they're going through space and time, and she's laughing, and he's grinning like a maniac.

And they land in front of a quaint little building with gray shutters and a brick exterior and a patchy top. She allows him to guide her through the halls and point out the imperfections and possibilities with wide green eyes. It isn't the greatest place ever, and no one would even think twice about wanting to live here, but he has the brightest expression on his face that she can't say "no" to, so she pats his cheek, and he rushes to find the landlord, and they're placed in the smallest flat in the complex by the end of the day.

"Our home," he announces, standing in the middle of the sitting-room-and-kitchen-and-dining-room combo. "Aw, it's beautiful, isn't it? Kind of smells like old milk, but it'll do." He nods and bounces on his heels. "It'll do."

* * *

It frequently rains. The roof frequently leaks. And he frequently has to get on the tiny wooden table to patch it.

Although it frequently happens, it doesn't mean he's gained an ability to handle the situation.

His fingers are twitching against the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, like they often do in debacles such as this; and she is watching him from the loveseat across the room, like she usually does when he is on top the kitchen table with no plan at the ready. "Is there a problem?" There is warmth in her tone, and it's easily recognized by the one across the room.

"No, no," he retorts, casting a narrowed look over at her. "Everything's fine." His voice is soft and welcoming and playful, and her smile spreads to every corner of the room. He straightens his arms to his sides and pops a joint in his neck. "We need some pots and pans and some other normal things. Then, in the morning, we can report the leak." He steps down from the piece of furniture. "Like normal people."

"Normal people."

"Yes."

They gather what equipment they have and set it around the flat. "I think you could have repaired that yourself," she says, handing him a frying pan.

He takes the object and waves it about the room, at the peeling wallpaper and the noisy ceiling fan. "Why, yes, but that wouldn't be… y'know." Dropping the instrument on a spot of the floor nowhere near the initial leak, he mumbles, "Just in case. Isn't that what humans do?" he asks, turning to her for reassurance. "Preparation and that sort of thing?" Without bothering for a reply, he claps his hands together and grins and hops atop their sofa. "Oh, what if we get a flood? How interesting that would be."

She laughs; and he doesn't understand, but it's okay, because they're a normal married couple right now; and it's ordinary to make mistakes and wrongly assume they'll be a victim of a flood on the fourth floor of a building.

* * *

On the fifth night in their new home, they have sex.

She loves every moment of it. He enjoys some aspects of it.

The atmosphere still smells like spoiled milk, and the added fragrance of sticky bodies and weird body fluids boil away the hairs in his nostrils. He has his arms behind his head, and she's slumbering beside him. She occasionally snores and shifts about, but he doesn't make fun of her, because he's going to do that in the morning when they can both share the laughter and awkward glances and the disturbing after-sex questions.

So, he takes the time he has right now to watch her become a jester and entertain everybody in the room.

* * *

Having a flat with no fireplace, they resort to candles for warmth.

They're scarce on candles.

"We have a box of matches," he says, showing her the object he had found in the deepest corner of their closet. "They're a bit damp, and they probably don't work, but we have them, and that's all that matters."

She doesn't reply, only rubs her hands together next to the small vanilla-scented candle that isn't lit, but he knows she agrees.

He sits beside her on the sofa, sinking down a considerable bit into the chilled cushion. Tossing the box of unusable matches to her, he flails his arms around and fights to stay on a stable level. And she doesn't laugh or stare at him, because he's an idiot with stupid ideas to make it through the winter night with a sodden case of matches and a candle with no wick.

* * *

They have their first fight in the flat after passing the third-week anniversary of normality.

He's making tea on a stove that doesn't function correctly, and she can't stand the way he's poking at buttons and twisting dials like he knows what he's doing. Her hands are on her hips when she yells, "Can't you just sonic it?"

He jumps and knocks the kettle off the appliance, and it smacks against his socked foot, and he yells incoherent words back at her as he slumps to the floor, fingers tightly coiled around his appendage. "Why," he starts when he regains control, "would I do that?!"

"Because it'll be easier!" she says.

"But it's not _normal_!" he says. He still fumbles for the object kept in his inside jacket pocket and thrusts it away from his reach, like the action itself could shove all thoughts and desires for its usage. "The only thing I will do with that"—he points—"is screwing drives and driving screws!"

Sighing a sigh that would damage his throat (if he had human vocal chords), she stomps to their bedroom, and he stares at his sonic screwdriver as it rolls under their refrigerator. The kettle is left untouched for the rest of the day.

* * *

He fishes out his screwdriver a week later. He has to give it a proper cleaning with dish soap and tissue paper before he can hear it make its usual sound again.

* * *

They constantly have sex.

And each time, they pretend nothing is wrong when there is something obviously wrong.

* * *

Their television is on some boring news report. She wants to change the channel, but his eyes are glued to the screen with a smile on his face and a shine to his demeanor, so she remains still with a frown on her face and a cup of tea pressed to her lips. He has an identical cup in his hands, but it is untouched and lukewarm. Hers is very much the same.

"Did you hear that, Little Pond?" he teases, flicking his gaze to her for a brief moment before resting back on the telly.

She briefly says her acknowledgement, and he nods, and they drink from their tea cups (she swallows, he spits, and all is seemly well).

* * *

The door to their flat closes with a loud slam, and he stands from the sofa with a startle. His hair is a mess, and he has drool caked on the side of his mouth. He tries to rub away slumber's betraying evidence, but she walks into the sitting room, and they keep eye contact for six incredibly long seconds.

"You've been sleeping all day, haven't you?"

"I don't sleep," he admits, brushing a few cowlicks down to only have them spring up again.

Their eye contact extends to twenty seconds.

"Well," she starts, going into the dining room part of their place and shoving her thin jacket off and onto an arm of a chair, "no matter the ruddy state of this building, we're running low on—"

He slides over to her and presses his finger to her lips and stares at her and shakes his head. "Don't say what I know you're going to say."

And she doesn't. She goes into the bedroom, and when he tries to follow, he trips on the leg of the table and cracks his knees on the hard flooring.

Tonight, he'll sleep on the tile.

* * *

She comes home from work complaining about how terrible the customers are, how gross the changing rooms have become, how rough the merchandise is to have the capability to scrape off the top layer of skin on her fingertips. The list is never-ending, but he is there to sit next to her, hand on her back, nodding at the appropriate times, telling his thoughts when deemed right. He doesn't understand a bit of what she's saying, but he pretends to, because that's what normal people do.

They have raw noodles for dinner. It isn't satisfying, but he refuses to fix the stove. "I make cabinets with this now," he proclaims, tapping her on the head with his screwdriver.

She wrinkles her nose, and he laughs, and she laughs, and they eat their dinner, and they argue over dessert.

"We don't have anything," he says, poking his head in the refrigerator. "No biscuits, no cake, no sweets." He throws a glance over his shoulder. "What do you propose?"

Silence pierces through their little home. He chews on the inside of his cheek. "Ah."

"What?" A _tap-tap-tap_ is the sound of the heel of her boot hitting against the edging of the sofa. She is impatient, and he is never oblivious.

Blonde hair attacks his face as he grabs hold of her shoulders, smashing mouths and torsos together. She doesn't fight, only indulges, and the feel of her lipstick against his tongue is from the heavens.

They don't make it to the bedroom. The loveseat is sufficient to his own escapades to devour a sweet bite of dessert.

They hardly mind the old milk smell.

* * *

"How do you make tea," she begins, finger tracing the brim of the mug, "when our stove doesn't even work?"

He grins and straightens his bowtie.

* * *

No matter how long they try to prolong it, they (try to) have the odd after-sex conversation.

"You didn't seem that into it last night," she says, brow furrowed.

At first, he acts innocent. "Into what?" He examines his nails.

"I don't want to be explicit."

"Then be subtle."

"_I was_."

His cheeks and tips of his ears feel ready to explode from the weird flush his body had taken. He wants this to be the end of the discussion, so he doesn't say anything in reply, and she stares at him with her lips pressed together, and he ignores her, and she goes to bed.

* * *

He gets hit in the face with a Rubix cube when she returns from work.

"You're worthless!" she shouts, arms up to stroke the ceiling.

Giving him no time to retort, she locks herself in the bedroom. He palms the toy, now lying in his lap, and pretends his nose isn't bleeding.

* * *

Her face is smooth and young, and her laughter is so uplifting. His expression is one of an excited schoolboy who has the opportunity to have lunch with his crush.

They stay up all night.

"I found this in the closet," she says, holding out the small puzzle for him to take. "Wonder how many things the previous tenants left."

He takes the cube and smiles and twists a few pieces around. "I hate this."

She tosses a few grapes at his cheekbone. "Right," she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"I do!" But she isn't convinced. She munches on the fruit and smirks at him.

* * *

He solves the jigsaw in a few hours (after several failed attempts).

"Thought you hated those," she states from the kitchen, sitting atop a counter. He only smiles and runs his fingers along the sleek, colorful surface.

* * *

"Bloody noses," he mumbles, then sighs at the ridiculous pun. He pokes and prods at the cartilage, at the dried substance on his upper lip.

* * *

They attempt the after-sex queries again.

It's inevitable this time around, for they're lying in bed, side by side, completely naked and sweaty and really _not appropriate._

She starts it. "This time was different."

He plans to finish it. "No, it wasn't."

However, she continues it. "No, I'm pretty sure it was different." And before he can get a say in, she points out, "Each time is different. I don't know how, but it's… _different_."

And he swallows his tongue and looks down at his bare chest and wishes for a blanket that isn't on the other side of the room. "I want you to be happy," he quietly confesses.

The atmosphere in the whole vicinity changes by a dozen octaves. "Why?" she angrily inquires, face turning to stare at him with fiery eyes and a cold mouth.

He doesn't understand her rage. "Because," he mumbles, rolling onto his side to take hold of her hand, "that's what normal people do."

* * *

They have their final fight succeeding the after-sex talk.

She cries through it all. He is mostly nonplussed.

* * *

A warm cup makes its way into his hands for a second time that evening. He accusingly stares at it, lips pursed and red from her lipstick. "I'm not drinking this," he tells her. "The other one tasted _horrible_."

She shushes him and wipes his mouth with a thumb. "This is better."

Curiosity overcomes him (much like the first time), and he should know better than to toss the beverage down his throat, but he does anyway. He swallows fine this time, and then the familiar taste registers in his mind, and he's spitting out the drink and dumping the contents of the cup onto the snowy ground and sliding two fingers down the length of his tongue to his—

"Sweetie!" she says, taking his wrist and replacing his fingers with her own lips. "It's fine," she reassures him, the wicked smile still playing at the corners of her mouth.

He has red lipstick stain back on his face, and he doesn't seem to notice. His hands are on his hips, and the scarf he's wearing is unraveling against the strong wind, and his eyes are narrowed, and he mumbles, "You tried to poison me again."

But through it all, he's chuckling, and she joins him, because everything will be okay.

* * *

The flat is cold.

Alone on the sofa, he has his long legs pulled to his body in a fragile trial to keep his body heat inside.

He remembers a time when she always jumped about the small interior with him by her side, a smile on both of their faces. He remembers a time when they broke a chair leg by fighting over the last teabag. He remembers a time when the telly was on, but they were too busy by the texture of the furniture rubbing against their naked flesh. He remembers a time when they fought over the stove and his inability to comprehend the idea of having to work. He remembers a time when they yelled until the early hours of the morning, and the landlord had to get between them and threatened to call the police. He remembers a time when they were charged with domestic abuse. He remembers a time when they were happy and didn't care that sex had to be a thriving factor in their relationship.

He remembers a time when they were time travelers and "normal" was the last word in their dictionary.

Remembering is all he can do, because he's being evicted tomorrow. Remembering is all he can do, because he'll possibly never relive a moment with her. Remembering is all he can do, because no matter how hard he looks, he's never going to find her. Remembering is all he can do, because he's never going to be able to stand the thought of tea and raw noodles again. Remembering is all he can do, because he now knows he was an idiot to think they'd encounter a flood on the fourth floor. Remembering is all he can do, because he doesn't understand why she walked out on him. Remembering is all he can do, because there will never be someone like her that tries to poison him with hot chocolate twice.

Remembering is all he can do, because that's what normal people do.


End file.
